


call and response

by sunaga



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Kink Negotiation, Multifandom Women Comment Ficathon, Non-Sexual Kink, Restraints
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-24
Updated: 2013-06-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 02:26:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/856701
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaga/pseuds/sunaga
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He calls upon her, and she rises to the occasion.</p><p> </p><p>  <i>"Watson, it's so easy if only you'd look. People look but don't see all the time. But you, I know you can; don't play dull and dumb with me. Keep that for your insipid boyfriends."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	call and response

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mollivanders](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mollivanders/gifts).



> Originally posted [here](http://fluffyfrolicker.livejournal.com/35323.html?thread=1125883#t1125883) for the prompt, _I'm a doctor not a detective_.
> 
> I have a hard time tagging any of my Elementary fic, so suggestions are always welcome.

She turns to him, her hair sliding down her shoulders and across her back.  
  
"Damn it. Sherlock, I'm a doctor not a detective."  
  
He has that light in his eyes. The one that says she's said exactly what he thought she would. "Ah," he says. "So you _are_ a doctor. Knew it. What is it they say? Can't take the doctor out of the woman or -- "  
  
She frowns, crossing her arms and doesn't correct his parsed idioms. "I'm not a doctor anymore," his face starts pulling into a frown and she pushes ahead, "and I am certainly _not_ a detective."  
  
He cuts her off. "What do you plan on doing now, Watson? Deny me thrice? Quite biblical of you for an agnostic spiritualist."  
  
"What are you talking about, Sherlock?"  
  
He steps forward, the joints of his fingers bending and snapping. "You, me. Us, Watson, _think_. That's what I've been trying to get you to do."  
  
She pushes back her feelings and takes him in. Plaid shirt, oddly enough not buttoned all the way, leaving a rare amount of skin exposed. A vest that has _not_ seen better days if the lack of handmade repairs is to go by. Jeans she knows haven't been washed for at least a week, but is still the most recently cleaned of his pants. The locks on the wall, organized simultaneously in alternating rows by origin and diagonally by year.  
  
"Something's bothering you. You want to leave an impression."  
  
"Of course I do. Tell me something I don't."  
  
"You get tired of knowing everything."  
  
"I do hate repeating myself Watson."  
  
She stares him down until he shifts his weight onto his back foot. "Watson, it's so _easy_ if only you'd look. People look but don't see all the time. But you, I know you can; don't play dull and dumb with me. Keep that for your insipid boyfriends."  
  
"My personal life is off-limits."  
  
She turns away from him to gather up the take-out menus scattered across the table. How he can work when he can't even see the wood beneath all the papers is beyond her. Gathering them into one pile, she straightens them out, tapping the edges against the table and begins sorting them by cuisine for herself and alphabetical order for him.  
  
"A token protest," Sherlock insists.  
  
She narrows her eyes and places Siamese Pearl behind Lucky Cat. "I ought to brain you with one of your locks."  
  
"Go ahead."  
  
She pivots in her ankle boots, a sharp reply ready. But there's something there in the set of his slight frown, the spacing between his eyebrows -- his version of an open face that she's beginning to understand.  
  
She tilts her head, trying to figure out what's placed that expression there. She sets down the menus, and goes over their conversation again, what she's touched, what he's looked at. She glances again at the wall of locks, handcuffs absent for once. She slides her gaze back to him.  
  
There is a solution he's been waiting for her to find, pushing her towards. Perhaps this is part of it.  
  
"I ought," she says very deliberately, "to use your locks to keep you in place."  
  
"Yes," he replies.  
  
Wipes her palms across her teal leggings, she extends her arm. His eyes move away from her eyes, down the bend of her elbow, and towards her empty palm.  
  
Out his back pocket, he produces the pair and places them in her hand, carefully not touching her.  
  
"Joan," he says.  
  
"It's alright." He gives a small smile, and then she gestures towards the kitchen chair. "Sit."


End file.
